


of hands and lips and murmurings

by teaspoonery (quodpersortem)



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 04:26:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13092378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quodpersortem/pseuds/teaspoonery
Summary: (livejournal re-post fromhere; mine)word count: 673rating: r / nc-17there’s a hot throbbing feeling between his legs, for once not confined by the military issued clothing – or really, any clothing at all. not confined by the presence of others, by the thought of wardate: 2010-07-15





	of hands and lips and murmurings

  
The tent is dirty and his hands are dirtier but Snafu can’t bring himself to care. He’s alone and that’s what matters, what allows him to lay naked on his bed and above the sheets, staring up at the gaps in the fabric. It’s what allows him to let his thoughts drift to more pleasurable things than war for the first time in  _months_ , and since he is a healthy young man it doesn’t take long before he remembers. There’s a rag by his bed, just in case, the cigarette a burnt-out stub in the sand next to his cot.   
  
There’s a hot throbbing feeling between his legs, for once not confined by the military issued clothing – or really, any clothing at all. Not confined by the presence of others, by the thought of war.  
  
He doesn’t touch himself though, just lets his fingers linger on his thighs and his stomach, moving them with slow strokes that feel like waves of  _feeling_ through his body while he thinks of a warm body next to his, moist lips against his cracked ones, the smell of clean skin.  
  
The air is hot around him, pressing onto his body, but he can hardly feel it anymore, just like he can hardly smell the salt and the dirt. Cleanliness seems to set off more radars than anything else here –everything polished seems out of place.   
  
And then it’s the idea of a clean bed, freshly washed sheets cool against his body distracting him. The simple idea of a mattress with a sheet, and it almost makes him laugh in its absurdity, it would have if it didn’t make him feel this aroused – the idea of rubbing himself off against said sheets.  
  
Recalling it is enough – remembering the feel of soft silk against his skin, smooth and cold and so good when he rubbed himself against it that once. It’s enough to pretend for a bit that when he fists his shaft loosely, to pretend it’s silk instead of the rough calluses and filth on the palm of his hand. It’s enough because he hasn’t _felt anything_ in so long and the clothing the military gives them is rougher than any other materials he’s ever worn before, even though it’s grown to be comfortable by now. But doesn’t rub in suggestive places, it doesn’t stretch tight over muscle, it’s just baggy and made to fight.   
  
He gasps when the soft skin of the inside of his wrist comes in contact with the head of his cock and he rubs against it again, experimentally. It leaves a smear of precome and the thrum of arousal intensifies.  
  
When he returns to stroking himself, he moves faster and pushes his hips up. The thoughts are clouding his mind,  _silk, blanket, silk, come, mouth, tongue_ – and it’s so abstract, not a proper fantasy, but the words work in a way a person never would and Snafu can’t stand the thought of an actual human doing this to him right now.  
  
And so it’s _silk, blanket, silk, come, mouth, tongue,_ it’s  _up, down, faster, faster_ and his hips keep pushing while his back writhes against the blanket, a stimulus he can suddenly feel as well, and his nerve endings seem to stand on end while he keeps breaking sweats, entire body tingling until he squeezes and writhes and pulls, a jerk, an uncontrolled movement, and then comes, pearly white strings of seed over his stomach and hands and bed and it seems to keep on coming and coming and-  
  
It leaves him gasping for air, thick and desperate, it leaves him thoughtless, motionless, it leaves him laying boneless on the stretcher once he’s regained his breath, cleaned himself.   
  
He barely has the mind to pick up the rag and wipe the biggest mess away, to pull the blankets over his bare body. But when he wakes up the next day, he is feeling more relaxed, happier even, than he has in months – simply because he allowed himself to forget everything for a while.


End file.
